


Healing

by KnightlyCorvid



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6397723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightlyCorvid/pseuds/KnightlyCorvid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a priest turned paladin. Begins at the siege of Shattrath and follows his path through Azeroth. Mentions of several canon events and in game quests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day that changed everything came as any other. He woke in the wee hours of the morning, shaved and bore the robes of his service before walking out into the crisp morning air. But this day wasn't like any other at all. The ebb and sway of people walking to and from the market, carrying wares and small children in their arms and the distant shouts of merchants and mischievous youngsters wasn't heard in the residencial district of Shattrath. The city was a ghost, compared to it's normal self and all that remained was the defenders, the martyrs and Anchorite Yiltaraz. Silence hung heavily in the air, like a pestilence that clogged the lungs and pressed down upon the bodies of those destined to die for the greater good. So many sacrifices, yet they weren't enough for their people to live in peace. They never were.  
Amongst some others, Yiltaraz had stayed behind as a healer, seeking to give his brethren as much time as possible to escape. All knew of the final service they were performing to the light and their friends, family, children and spouses, and most, if not all, had made peace with it as best they could. The priest had done so in the only way he knew how: harsh words and cold logic. They would leave, the children because they were to become great draenei and his beloved to supply their race with her great knowledge of technology and crystalsmithing. He would stay behind to cover their escape (and maybe because he was oh so very tired of running). This frantic chase had spanned most of his life and Yiltaraz was ready to stop and take a stand for the first and last time in his life. He would do so with the knowledge that his soulmate and the children borne of their love would be safe and sound.

  
It began without warning, as the orcs came down upon the city by the thousands. They were fearsome fighters, all of them, which made the anchorite realize that they had only been able to remain on Draenor for so long because they were allowed to. But now, with the fel taint running through their very veins and their master's orders driving them, the orcs took offense to their presence. And the draenei would pay dearly for trespassing.

  
Soon the sounds of battle drowned out all rational thought, leaving instinct and training in it's stead and Yiltaraz fell into the familiar feeling of channeling the light to mend wounds and empower strikes, his chanting echoing around the battlefield (for the city couldn't be called anything else) by voices that were not his own.  
The first draenei start to fall, as the severity of their wounds overpowers the healing light poured into them. The glow fades from their eyes and their carcasses are thrown aside like ragdolls. The anchorite ignores those who die and focuses his attention on those who might still be saved, but the feeling of the life fading from their corpses vibrates through every fiber of his being like an earthquake. Amidst the chaos, a shout is heard.

  
"The western gate is overtaken! Reinforce the defenses!" Off in the distance an exarch, perched up high upon a bridge, valiantly fights off the orcs who try to flank the remaining forces as she commands her troops. Some vindicators answer the call and Yiltaraz grabs a young anchorite, pulling him along to assist. Before they lay eyes up the broken city wall, the smell of death and blood overwhelms their senses. All around there are corpses, the exarch herself is standing on some, both draenei and orc. Some of the corpses are in several states of impalement in spears and stakes, standing up like gruesome flagpoles.

  
The young man he'd pulled along sobs and goes down to his knees, vomiting whatever breakfast he had managed to push down. Kissing his teeth in annoyance, Yiltaraz grabs the boy (he can't be older than his first couple thousands, what an awful sacrifice) and pulls him up to his feet. He pushes him forward and snaps unkindly. "Get yourself together, lifes are on the line." Yiltaraz remembers. He remembers how it as the first time he saw battle and death. It wasn't fair but then again, things never seemed to be since their flight from Argus.

  
To his merit, the young priest nods and wipes away at his tears, channeling the light to heal the reinforcements and bring some of the fallen soldiers back from the brink of death. The orcish forces are concentrated in breaking through the choke point created by the exarch and don't pay attention to both healers, leaving the anchorite with enough space to concentrate. The light flows freely through him, bringing the blood in his veins to a boiling point. The concentrated power soon comes to it's limit and breaks away from him in a halo, empowering the defenders, and searing the fel corrupted orcs. His eyes snap open as he regains his bearings. Yiltaraz attempts to continue with his chanting before a blood curdling yell, too close to him, grabs his attention.

  
The apprentice anchorite he had brought with him slumps to the ground, a look of shock frozen in his face. Some of the more intelligent orcs had found a weak point in the defense and broke through to deal with the pesky casters. One of them weilded the axe that had cleaved the boy, his blood covering the beast from head to toe. Accepting that this would be his end, Yiltaraz dug his hooves into the rubble, determined to take as many of them with him as he could. Raising one hand to the sky and snapping it right back down, the anchorite yells out words of power that call down holy fire from the heavens and shield him from arrows and other projectiles.

  
The orcs scream in agony as the holy fire sears the tainted blood in their veins. All but a brutish mutant who only flinches before staring him down with it's blood red eyes. The beast roars and take a running start towards him, adjusting it's grip on the massive two handed axe it wields. Before the orc can raise it above his head, however, several thick shards of ice sweep over the anchorite's shoulder and impale themselves on his foe: one through his heart, the other through his elbow and the last one through his eye. It takes a couple more unsteady steps before falling at Yiltaraz's feet, driving the ice lances depper into it's body, a couple of them bursting through his back.

  
Panting from the shock, he snaps his head around searching for the source of the spell that saved his life, spotting a tiny glowing hand peeking from a pile of rubble. Unleashing a quick healing prayer in the general direction of the soldiers holding the choke point, he makes for the slabs of stone trapping his saviour. Picking up a staff abandoned amidst the chaos on the way, he reinforces the wood with holy lighy and uses it to lift the heaviest stones up. As he sets the staff into place so it holds up the rubble as he pulls the mage out from under it, his heart drops down to his feet when he gets a good look at the person stuck underneath the rubble.

  
"Mesrii!? What are you doing here? You're supposed to have left with your mother and siblings!" he yells at his second youngest daughter. He quickly drags her out and holds her up by the arm, which jostles her injured shoulder. "I'm sorry, papa! I wanted to help, so I hid here while they were leaving. But when the orcs came the wall fell on top of me!" the girl flinches and looks down at the ground in shame. Worked up into a panic, the anchorite glances at the defenders and the orcs he left behind. The former were starting to get picked off one by one and the later, although still curled up on the ground in the throes of pain, were starting to get their bearings.

  
Gritting his teeth in anger, he picks up the girl, holding her to his chest, and turns his back on the vindicators to run towards the tunnels that lead out of the city. "Papa, what are you doing!?" Mesrii squeals, wrapping her arms around her father's neck and her legs around his torso. "Hush now, cherry, I'm getting you out of here." He answers, his legs carrying him as fast as they could through the maze of passageways. His breath comes out in harsh pants and his lungs burn after a while. It's at that point that he starts to notice a wet warmth soaking through his robes on his shoulder. The father ducks under a crevice of the wall, pulling the girl away to take a good look at her. Her right arm had been smashed by the rocks falling and the only thing keeping her from passing out from the pain was the adrenaline cursing through her veins. Said adrenaline, however, was making her heart beat wildly, and forcing her blood out through the gruesome wound. His side was covered in her blood at this point.

  
A shout in orcish echoes down the hall, startling Yiltaraz out of his revery, and he peeks around the corner. Although he can't see any orcs, the booming voice of what must be a commander is a strong indicator that they're not far. "Papa, I'm tired..." He turns back to his daughter, who is beggining to grow faint from the blood loss. He takes her face with both his hands and strokes her cheeks with his thumbs. "You're gonna have to listen to papa very closely now ok?" the girl responds with a weak nod. "Try really, really hard to stay awake ok? Can you do that for papa? We're gonna go out into the woods and then papa will do something about your arm, ok? Just hold on." Mesrii nods once more and babbles something about woodland critters that Yiltaraz is too distracted to pay attention to.

  
He holds her to his chest once more and rises. In a daze, he throws himself into the familiar maze, the sounds of plate clinking always nipping at his heel. Hope blooms in his chest as a faint breeze is felt through the tunnels, indicating that the exit was near. As soon as he finishes his train of thought the gate appears in front of him. He quickly ducks under it and rolls some nearby heavy debry over to block it. Just in case.

  
The priest manages to duck into the treeline just in time to hear angry shouts at the blocked gate. With luck they never saw them and will forfeit their chase. When he deems himself to have run far enough into the woods, Yiltaraz takes the time to check up on the child that now hangs limp on his shoulder. A sudden, fiery worry washes over him as he holds the girl away to get a better look at her. Her eyes have closed and she seems to have fainted from the blood loss. Or worse... Yiltaraz shakes his head, banishing the thoughts from his mind before laying the girl down on the grass and kneeling besides her motionless body.

  
He concentrates, like he's done so many times before, and familiar words of prayer spill from his lips. His hands press down on the wound at her shoulder... but besides getting stained with her blood (that no longer gushes from the wound), nothing happens. They don't shine with the healing glow of the Light and the wound doesn't close. The child's face has lost it's gentle violet colour and is deathly pale. He frantically repeats the prayer, his concentration slipping, replaced by a desperate dread. He pleads with the Light like he's never done before. Yiltaraz had dedicated his years to this force of life and healing but now... I does not answer.

  
With shaking hands he presses two fingers angainst his daughter's neck, checking for a pulse, a sign that he hasn't been completely abandoned. But her veins don't bulge out with the blood flow. Her heart doesn't beat. The blood that was pouring out from her wound and soaking his robes begins to dry. The priest pulls the body closer and craddles it, rocking it back and forth like he used to do when she couldn't sleep at night.

  
It's a week later that they find him, holding on to the rotting corpse of his daughter. The anchorites that returned to the ruined Shattrath softly try to separate him from the body to no avail. It takes two guards to restrain him so they can finally take the girl for a proper burial. Yiltaraz struggles like a madman in their grip and curses them and their families before finally passing out from exhaustion and hunger.


	2. Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The five stages of grief, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

Fatehma tripped over her hooves as she walked through the Lower City's market, managing to catch herself before dropping her basket. A couple of human adventurers notice it and politely ask if she requires help. Knowing fully well they expect compensation, the young draenei declines before hurrying along. It's already past midday and she knows that if left to his own devices, the old man won't eat. She greets the arakkoa fishmonger, spending the rest of her pocket change on some of the bird's fresh catch.

She manages to reach the house where she's payed to work, taking care of a veteran, but not before tripping over a cat or two. Ever since the Scryers had set up shop, the creatures had overun the city. She knocks on the door thrice, a signal between the maid and her charge, and promptly lets herself in. Tiptoeing around the house, Fatehma peeks around the rooms, looking for the man. Amongst the many divisions of the house (it was obviously built for a large family), she find the only occupant in one of the bedrooms, one decorated with drawings of flowers and stuffed elekks. 

"Mister Yiltaraz! There you are! Guess what? The mistress gave me some extra spending money and I got some nice things from the market today! Do you like fish? I bought some fresh!" She falls into the familiar routine of prattling off to a very unresponsive mister Yiltaraz. The old anchorite doesn't even react to her presence. While in the beginning it was off putting and uncomfortable, she has since grown used to it. In the full year she has spent working on keeping this man fed and cared for, Fatehma has never once heard him talk. 

The job is simple. On the morning she buys fresh bread and brings it to his house, cohercing him to break fast. That is the most complicated meal of the day. As far as the maid knows, Yiltaraz doesn't sleep or does so sitting upright and with his eyes open. So, when the morning comes it's a chore in and of itself to get him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Out of the times he does leave, she can count by the fingers in one hand how many times he's eaten his breakfast.

Lunch is a whole fight entirely, which involves a third party: the Kaliri. The windows are always open. She's tried closing them before but, upon turning her back, they end up open once more. She figures he likes it that way, and liking things is something she encourages in the man so she lets him do as he pleases. However that leaves the house open to an invasion of the big birds that followed the arakkoa into the ruins of the city. They line up in the parapets, waiting for lunch to be served. They seem to know exactly when that is, and, no matter how hard she swats them away, always manage to take half of mister Yiltaraz's meal for themselves.

"There's a lot of new adventurers around! You'd figure that after a while Azeroth would run out of new people but they just keep coming. I would like to go there someday, wouldn't you, mister Yiltaraz? I hear they turned the Exodar's crash site into a city. My mother was in there maybe I should go visit. That's right! Your family is there too, isn't it? Miss Edirah portaled over from there last time she was here. Myabe we'll go visit together!" her voice echoes throughout the house and is met with no answer or reaction from the only other person around, as usual.

Miss Edirah, or just mistress at times, is the woman who pays the maid for her services. It's not much but it keeps Fatehma and her brother housed, clothed and fed. She knows her mistress is one of mister Yiltaraz's many children, part of a set of triplets now reduced to a pair since one of them perished in the Exodar's crash. She was told not to speak of the incident to the man, under any circunstances. Other than her, Fatehma has only met three more of the twelve children: the adopted twins, Misaelli and Kilmoras, two very strange young draenei who never seem to be appart and speak as a unit rather than their own separate person and Thorphais, the eldest, bearing a striking resemblance to his father and walking with the aid of a cane as he got used to his prosthetic arm and leg after the Exodar's crash had almost taken the left side of his body.

All three had come to visit, first the twins, then Thorphais. The twins had simply stod in silence on the halway, looking into the room where the man sat. They had dined with them, and while the girl, Misaelli, had looked at her adoptive father with pity, the boy, Kilmoras, had stared him down in anger. The twins share a look Fatehma could only describe as unsettling before deciding on a mutual emotion: disapointment. They leave without saying their goodbyes. Fatehma arrives late to the small apartment she shares with her Korkrul brother, who worries sick for her. She puts him at ease and spends the night awake, thinking of the twins' reaction to their father's state. 

Thorphais is the most emotional of them all, and according to miss Edirah, the one who takes the most after mister Yiltaraz. He arrives in good spirits, with a charming smile and some gifts both for his father and the maid. Fatehma accepts the bracelet and shawl with some hesitation, but she can't deny the wink he sends her way almost makes her knees buckle. He then moves on to the room. He closes the door behind himself and she does her best to distance herself from their one sided conversation. But the man's screams and accusations, trying to get a reaction from his father echo faintly throughout the house and Fatehma can't help but listen to some of it. She gathers that the eldest son feels betrayed by his father's weakness, by his apathy and the way he so easily crumbled. It's also the first time the maid hears her name: Mesrii, the girl who owned the room where the anchorite sits day and night.

When Thorphais finally tires of being met by no reponse, he leaves the room, his hair disheveled from no doubt running his hands through it in frustration. He walks to the kitchen with a smile, flirts with her and when Fatehma invites him to dine with them, he excuses himself with a sly remark and a wink. She wonders if mister Yiltaraz used to be like that. He leaves with a smile, just as he entered, but it feels much less sincere. 

That day she witnesses the most reaction he's ever shown to her. Throphais proves to be a distraction long after he's gone. She wonders the reason behind his gifts and flirting, and how deeply he seemed to be affected by his father's state of mind. Yiltaraz is seated on the dining room as she prepares their dinner, always making a bit more to take home for her brother. He cooks for himself but seeing the cuts and burn oh his misshapen hands tells her it's not easy. So she does it herself. It's like this that she manages to cut her hand badly. Fathema shrieks and holds her hand up to her chest, staining her dress blue. In a motion borne of experience, Yiltarz rises and grabs her arm, looking at the injured hand. She remembers he's a priest and sighs with relief. It is short lived, for as he holds a warm glowing hand to her wound, instead of the soothing sensation of healing light a deep, red hot, searing agony pulses through the area. She pushes him away on instinct and, as the pain subsides and she opens her eyes once more, notices the destroyed look in the anchorite's face. 

He runs away and avoids her for a week, during which she takes to leaving his meals outside the bedroom door. When she consults a healer about her wound, which was fortunately seared closed, even if it now sports a nasty scar, the woman laughs and tells her not to pick fights with vindicators. The maid attempts to explain but doesn't know how.

Fatehma decides she must get the man out of the house more often after that. It's only now, almost a month after the eldest's visit, that she succeeds. After much insistence she doesn't recieve an agreement but Yiltaraz rises from his seat and walks to the front door and that's more than he's ever done before. They walk through the short expanse of woods separating his house from the main body of Shattrath City, and the maid takes it upon herself to fill the silence with her idle prattle. Her charge nods along but she doubts he's listening at all. Maybe it's some part of him trying to cultivate some sense of normalcy. He's deathly silent as always.

"So yesterday this night elf comes up to me while I was in the market... Have you seen those? They have big ears and eyebrows... They say they defeated the Betrayer in Azeroth! Don't you think that's amazing?" The man nods, eyes looking straigh ahead. They reach the market and some people greet her. Others seem to recognize mister Yiltaraz but simply give him faint looks of pity. She continues on about the kaldorei and their fascinating culture and looks but soon realizes that her companion isn't trailing behind anymore. A sudden panic takes hold of Fatehma before she spots the man at a stall littered with weapons.

With a sigh of relief, the maid approaches him quietly, curious of what he'll do. For the first time she hears the man's voice. It croaks from lack of use but the warm baritone of a preacher elicits some surprise in her.

"How much?" He says, simple and curt. But it's more than he's uttered in over 2 years. The merchant, a human with nasty scars all over his well muscled arms, most definitely an old mercenary, lifts an eyebrow and looks at the mace the draenei points out from the corner of his eye. It's simple but sturdy and it seems new, even if by no means extraordinary. In a gruff voice the human replies. "10 gold if ye know how ta use it." Fatehma prepares to haggle with the man. Surely such a simple mace isn't worth 10 gold coins! But before the thought leaves her lips, mister Yiltaraz has already dropped down a leather pouch on the stall. The mercenary turned merchant weighs the pouch, takes one of the coins out to bite it, an action which makes Fatehma grimace in disgust, and, after dumping it's contents on his own gold pouch, returns the leather purse along with the mace.

When Yiltaraz lifts his hands to pick up the purchase, it becomes impossible for him to hide the ever present tremble they've taken in recent times. Fatehma has noticed, for she notices everything, but has refrained from commenting on it. The mercenary however isn't as sensible and withdraws the mace. "Ya sure you should be handling a mace with them jitters on yer hands? I can sell ya something lighter ye know. Or something better ta hang over the fireplace. I won't even charge ye extra." The girl frowns and strides over, daintily ripping the mace and pouch from the mercenary's calloused hands.

"That's none of your business, si-" For a few seconds, the momentum of taking the mace keeps the weapon hairborne, but soon it comes crashing down into the ground with a dull tud, pulling her with it. Fatehma bends at her middle with a surprised gasp, followed by an amused snort from the human. She prepares to send him a venemous glare, when she notices a tall shadow as fell upon her. A large, warm hand rests on her head, ruffling her hair, while the other dives down to grasp the handle of the mace near it's head. "It's fine. Let's go." the girl tries not to flinch at the rough, scratchy voice and bolts upright, nodding. Her cheeks flush a bright blue when a look at the surroundings reveals a small gathering of people smilling at her. 

A rumble that could be mistaken for laughter snaps her back to reality, and Fatehma chases after her charge's broad back. The rest of their trip is nothing short of uneventful, no more maces or human mercenaries, no arguments in the streets, and, much to the maid's relief, no cats underfoot.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first written work in a long time. It's not beta'd but I've tried my best to make sure it's nice and all that. Yiltaraz is my character which you may find in Argent Dawn EU. Yes, I like hurting him a lot.


End file.
